Fullmetal Alchemist: The Gate Alchemist
by Andrew A. Anderson
Summary: Ed becomes a substitute teacher for a school of alchemy. When the teacher he is replacing supposedly dies of a heart attack, Ed is pulled into a conspiracy revolving around the Gate Alchemist, a man who claims he can use the Gate of Truth to jump between parallel universes. Who is he, where is he from, and what is his final destination? Post-Brotherhood.


**Fullmetal Alchemist: The Gate Alchemist**

* * *

**A/N:** Hello everyone! This will be my first fanfiction for Fullmetal Alchemist, though if you read Code Geass fanfictions, you might recognize me from Amnesiacs Anonymous. Intro aside, this story takes place after Brotherhood and follows the Elric brothers' journeys as left off at the end of the 2009 anime. As always, be prepared for sharp plot twists and sky-high cliffhangers!

**Chapter 1** - Closing Doors and Shutting Mouths

* * *

...

"This downpour isn't gonna let up, is it? I'll have another."

As if on cue, lightning flashed outside the window of the small pub, making the small glass on the bar counter sparkle brilliantly. A few moments later, thunder shook the establishment with a dull but gentle roar. The bartender nodded and went to the shelf behind him for the patron's choice of inebriating beverage.

A loud slam was heard as the small bells that hung above the door to announce guests jingled quietly. In walked a short figure who drew his hood about his face. He was of slightly stocky build, but that might have just been the layers of thick jackets he wore to shut out the penetrating cold. Droplets of rain that had clung to his hood now dripped down onto the scratchy welcome mat where visitors scraped their boots. Fog hovered in front of the opening of his hood as he exhaled deeply.

"Open a tab," came the terse command from the newcomer.

The bartender looked him up and down with uncertainty. He was not one of the regulars, and did not know his particular drinking habits. If he couldn't hold his liquor, there was a high chance that he would end up drunk and trash the room, possibly getting into a fight in the process.

"No alcohol for me. And this should be enough for a round for everyone." The man walked straight to the bar and placed down a stack of notes. The bartender crossed his eyes, bringing a note up to his nose for scrutiny.

"Do you have a room upstairs?"

"Yes...yes, we do," the bartender shook his head in amazement. Where did this guy get all of his money? For the time being, it didn't matter, as he did not seem like the type to cause trouble. Buying a round for the entire house was evidence enough, not to mention his choice to abstain from any alcohol that could cause an uproar if left unchecked. No, he knew how to get what he wanted.

"Well, look what we found here!" A group of clearly drunk men stumbled through the doors dripping wet from the rain, having been too wasted to even realize that the water falling from the sky was called a thunderstorm. The hooded man sighed deeply in annoyance and addressed them without turning around to face them.

"I'll deal with you three later."

"The hell you will, we'll deal with you now!" One of them shouted, drawing the attention of several customers.

"Yeah, give us our money back, you thief!"

"I didn't steal anything. You lost the bet fair and square." The bartender backed away nervously from the increasing tension.

Another one of the drunks raised a shaky finger in the hooded man's direction. "He's one of those alchemists! You fixed the game, I know it!" At this accusation, the hooded man turned his head to the side, not quite facing them, but sizing them up out of the corner of his eye.

"Leave now while you have the chance. I don't want any trouble here."

"How about you give us our money while you still have the chance?" One of the ruffians offered.

The hooded man shrugged his shoulders and threw up his hands in a half-hearted apology. "Whoops. Already spent it on a round for the house." The bartender heard his statement and gulped, now realizing that this man's small fortune had come from a bet. A bet with sore losers, as he saw things.

One of the drunks stumbled forward, raising a fist. "Why you little-!"

He was stopped by a iron grip on his wrist, strong enough that it seemed it would break. He could feel the plate joints in his wrist sliding around as they were squeezed by the man's hand. This entire time, the hooded man wasn't even facing him. He had grabbed his wrist without looking.

"Gah! Let go or else you'll break something, you idiot! You're a State Alchemist! If the State finds out-"

The hooded alchemist shot him a look that froze his speech. "Where did you get the idea that I was a State Alchemist from? I don't serve the State. Not anymore."

He released the drunkard's hand and pushed him back as he did. He rubbed his wrist and his jaw dropped upon realizing a good portion of his wrist had turned white from loss of circulation. The alchemist returned his attention to the bartender and signaled for a drink. An awkward quietness descended upon the bar, as most of the patrons had gathered to watch the small confrontation at the front of the room. Finally, the silence was broken by more slurred speech.

"So they call you the Gate Alchemist, huh?" one of the drunkards went on unwisely. "What's your specialty, closing doors?"

Bright blue sparks emitted from the bar and a large wooden fist erupted from the once-smooth surface, planting itself squarely in the unruly man's jaw. He staggered back, one hand clutching the side of his face and the other feeling behind him for a table or chair to brace himself on. His friends jumped back, startled, and helped him up.

"More like shutting mouths."

Upon a short private discussion amongst the three of them, the angry drunkards decided it best to leave the establishment alone. Even in their inebriated state, they knew to not mess with an alchemist, especially an ex-State alchemist. Ex-State alchemists were particularly troublesome because of their dissolved connection with a system that controlled them. Now free from the restraints of government, they no longer felt it necessary to uphold the values pressed upon them when they first were chosen for service. The Crimson Alchemist was proof of the dangers that followed ex-State alchemists.

"I'll pay for my room in the morning." The hooded stranger clapped his hands and touched the counter once more, returning the bar to its original flat shape. The wooden fist seemed to melt back into the wooden block from whence it came.

"You can do alchemy without a transmutation circle?" The bartender looked up from the sight, but was only able to catch a glimpse of the edge of the stranger's cloak as it flipped around the corner. Heavy footsteps echoed back to the bar as he walked up the creaky wooden steps to the rooms upstairs. He shook his head in wonder, promising himelf that he would talk to this curious visitor in the morning.

* * *

_5 days later - Flamel Elementary School_

_..._

"At the core of all alchemy is the Law of Equivalent Exchange. Now, can anyone tell me what this law states?"

The teacher stood at the front of the class room, pacing back and forth while waiting for an answer from his students. As usual, the class was quiet and bored, and on some rare days when the room was quiet enough, one could hear the faint snoring of a student in the back row. A timid hand went into the air.

"James?"

He answered with a child's voice, uncertainty melted into his answer. "One cannot take without first giving something of equal value?"

"Correct!" the teacher exclaimed with a bit too much enthusiasm, as the snoring student in the back jolted awake and fell off his chair in the process. The class erupted in laughter.

"Settle down, everyone. That's correct, James. To receive, alchemists first must give. This means that your sculptures that are due Monday after the weekend," he paused, letting the groan sweep through the class room, "must be given enough forethought as to how much material you will need to start with. Weigh the amount you start with, then weigh the finished product. This assignment tests your conversion efficiency. You will be graded on how efficiently you can recreate the sculpture after you break down the raw materials. If your ending weight turns out to be more than your starting weight, there's a good chance that you transmuted part of the table you were working on. The closer to your starting weight your ending weight is, the higher grade you will receive."

The school bell rung with a shrill chirp, and the students scrambled to gather their books and leave.

"Dismissed!"

The teacher sighed as the last of the students rushed out the door. He was a substitute, or rather an on-call teacher, at the local elementary school for aspiring alchemists. The teacher he was currently standing in for had gotten sick over the past weekend, and he had been summoned as a result. Luckily, this was not his first time substituting for the class, as the teacher had called in sick earlier many times in the school year. As the rumor mill ran, he had inherited a genetic disease that had run in his family for generations, giving him severe symptoms sporadically.

The class room was generously large, with windows on one side that stretched from floor to ceiling, always letting in the noon sun, when visible. There was a row of planters just outisde the windows, where small flowers would soak up the sun. The school took on a U-shape, with all the classrooms surrounding a central courtyard. A door in the middle of the wall of windows led to this courtyard.

On the other side of the wall of windows stood a large periodic table of the elements, that spanned the entire length of the class room. The board was worn at the edges and its surface bore dozens of scratches by bored students. A door in the back of the class room led to a small chemistry lab, chemistry being the basic foundation of alchemy.

At the front of the room hung a large blackboard. Under and to the left of the board sat the teacher's desk. It was cluttered, with papers and pencils strewn haphazardly across the flat surface. An empty bowl that used to be filled with noodles hung dangerously off of the edge, and a small tin of automail maintennance oil lay on its side, nearly empty. The gold-embossed name plate that faced the front of the class room read: "_Nicholas Rosenberg_", but a piece of binder paper was taped over the sign, the new label reading:

"_Edward Elric_"

Currently in the chair behind the desk with his feet up and hands behind his head reclined Edward Elric, former State alchemist and current on-call substitute teacher for Nicholas Rosenberg at Flamel Elementary.

The phone that lay under a shallow stack of papers began to ring shrilly, much to the chagrin of Ed, or rather Mr. Elric, as the students knew him, or even _Edward-Elric-you-drink-your-milk-right-now-mister-or-else-you'll-shrink-even-more_, as Winry often referred to him. Winry!

He scrambled to remove the stack of papers without disrupting their order, cursing to himself when he dropped half of the stack on the floor, and cursing again when he dropped the rest of the stack in his attempt to catch the falling stack. He bent down and tried to pick up the papers, mumbling to himself with each ring of the phone. Deciding to forget about even picking up the papers, he rose and picked up the phone instead.

"Heya, Winry! Listen, I was just about-"

"There's been a change in plans." Ed jumped in his seat as he realized that the person he was talking to was not Winry, but a man, maybe in his early twenties.

"Hello, you've reached Edward El-"

"Who's this? Where's Rosenberg?" The question came across more as a command, and Ed glared at the phone. He coughed in exaggeration to clear his throat before addressing this stranger in the most dignified voice he could attempt through his rising annoyance.

"Rosenberg isn't here. My name is Edwar-"

"I need to know where Rosenberg-" The stranger interrupted.

"AHEM. My name is Ed-"

"Where's Rosen-"

"MY NAME IS EDWARD ELRIC, YOU BABBLING BUFFOON." Ed jumped on top of his desk for emphasis and bellowed into the mouthpiece. Just then, the principal of the school walked through the classroom doors, slightly startled when she saw Ed standing on top of his desk waving his arms about angrily as he shouted into the phone. Upon noticing the principal, his face changed shades to a bright tomato, and he climbed back down and sat calmly in his seat.

"Edward Elric, you say?" The voice on the line calmly noted. _Why was that voice so familiar?_ "As in the Fullmetal Alchemist?"

"So you have heard of me, then?" Ed too calmed down, firstly because of the sudden appearance of the principal, and secondly to match the other person's voice.

"Of course I've heard of you. Who hasn't?"

"Eh, I guess I'm pretty famous around these parts." Ed under exaggerated, belittling his fame.

"I suppose it was inevitable that we would meet eventually."

"Inevitable?"

"Do you know where Nicholas Rosenberg is?" _That voice..._

"He's sick right now, and I'm the substitute teacher for him. Do you want me to take a message?"

The other end buzzed as the stranger hung up. "Hello? Geez, this guy..." Ed placed the phone on the receiver and leaned back in his chair. The principal handed him a stack of paperwork, topped by a small cardboard box labeled "Sender: Thomas Henshaw" followed by more lines concerning shipping address information.

"Do you think you could drop by Rosenberg's house on your way home? The top package was expedited and I don't want Mr. Rosenberg to have to wait any longer than he needs to," the principal explained.

"Shouldn't be a problem."

As the principal left, Ed flipped through the various letters to Rosenberg. He wasn't a snoop, rather Rosenberg had requested Ed to sort through his mail, weeding out annoyances such as advertisements, keeping school related business letters on his desk, and leaving the rest of the personal letters to him. After reading through the letters and discarding several "Meet singles in your area" advertisements from dating services, he got up from his desk to leave for the day. As he turned to pick up his favorite red coat with a flamel emblazoned on the back, he noticed he had not looked at the box that was from "Thomas Henshaw".

He picked up the package, which was about half the size of a typical shoe box, and turned it over on all sides. On the back, he saw an alchemical seal, designed to prevent anyone else than the intended recipient from opening it. To open the package the recipient would have to understand the correct method of deciphering the array. Alchemical seals such as these were never used twice, much like the key to a secret code.

He decided it best to leave the package alone. Even if he was still able to perform alchemy, he would not know the correct method of opening the seal. He picked up his jacket and left.

* * *

...

The house was surrounded by several police cars, some with their lights on, some without. A string of yellow caution tape surrounded the house, fluttering in the wind where the end of the tape had been tied off. The orange light cast by the descending sun reflected off of the hoods of the police cars with a neon glow. The angry spring wind beat against the sides of the house in an attempt to blow it over.

Some of the neighbours next door had gotten out of their houses and were talking with the officers.

A siren blared quickly, signalling for the taxi to slow down as it approached the scene of apparent excitement. The taxi cab screeched to a halt, and the rear door was immediately thrown open. Ed gathered up the letters for Rosenberg and hurriedly threw some money at the driver as he got out the car, telling him to wait outside. One of the officers flagged him down as he approached the house.

"Excuse me, but no one is allowed-"

"My name is Edward Elric, State Alchemist. I was a substitute for Mr. Rosenberg and I came here to deliver some letters."

"From the elementary school?"

"Yes. What's going on here?"

"If you two were friends, I'm sorry to let you know that he passed away earlier in the day."

The news shocked Ed, and he noticed an ambulance pulling up to the side of the house. Two paramedics jumped out of the back, carrying a stretcher. Another one of the police officers was escorting them inside. A few moments later, they wheeled the stretcher out, this time with a body on top. They jumped into the back of the ambulance and sped off, sirens howling through the air.

"Dead? How?"

"From what we could tell, it looked like he had a heart attack. You were aware of his health condition, no doubt?"

"His health was the reason I took over for him as a teacher temporarily. Who called in his death? It's almost nightfall, but you said he died in the day time."

"We're not sure, but the call came in from the house phone."

"So whoever it was who called, he or she had access to the house?" Ed asked.

"Looks that way, but when we got here, no one was here and the phone lines had been cut," the officer explained.

"Probably by whoever called in the death report..." Ed mused as he ran a hand through his hair.

"Are those letters for him? We can take those from you and return them to their senders. We'll have to contact his family anyway," the officer offered. Ed nodded and gave the stack of letters to the officer. He surveyed the scene and caught a glance of a hooded figure sitting on the roof of Rosenberg's house.

Ed pointed at the roof. "Who's that?" The officer turned around, and no one was there.

* * *

...

Sleep wasn't an available option on the ride home. He used to sleep through every cab ride home, but not this time. Rosenberg's death was still clinging to the back of his mind, and it wouldn't let go. Who was that man who called him at school and why had he hung up without introducing himself or leaving a message? It couldn't be a coincidence that someone was looking for Rosenberg on the same day he died.

Then there was the matter of the death report. Rosenberg died of a heart attack, a silent death that would not create sounds of a struggle. So who had called in the murder on the house phone? Rosenberg lived alone, and if someone who was taking care of him called in his death, wouldn't they stick around until the police arrived?

The man on the roof was connected to all of this, though Edward didn't know exactly how. He judged the situation off of his gut feeling, and his gut was usually right. He would have to find out exactly what was going on here.

"Excuse me, your package." The cab driver held out the small box that was addressed to Rosenberg from Henshaw. Ed smacked his face with his palm, realizing he had forgotten to give it over to the police to return. It had probably fallen off of the stack of letters in his haste to get out of the car.

"Take it, because I don't know what to do with it now," the driver pressured.

Ed took the package begrudgingly, and began the long journey up the three flights of stairs that would lead him to his apartment.


End file.
